


Into the Afternoon Quiet

by windymoors



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Communication, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, No Sex, No Smut, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Submission, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Trust, hair petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windymoors/pseuds/windymoors
Summary: The room around them is quiet, the atmosphere comfortable. Crowley is not quite dozing, lying stretched out along the sofa with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. His glasses, knowing what’s good for them, have long since found somewhere better to be. It’s his favorite kind of afternoon.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 68





	Into the Afternoon Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> The tags really give the best summary of this fic, so read those if you haven't. And enjoy. :)

Aziraphale’s fingers stroke slowly, repetitively, methodically through Crowley’s hair. The room around them is quiet, the atmosphere comfortable. Crowley is not quite dozing, lying stretched out along the sofa with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. His glasses, knowing what’s good for them, have long since found somewhere better to be. It’s his favorite kind of afternoon. 

Aziraphale’s hand flows down, over Crowley’s shoulder and down the length of his arm. Crowley tips his head to the side so he can look up at Aziraphale’s face. The angel has put his book aside and is looking thoughtfully at Crowley. 

“What’s on _your_ mind?” Crowley asks, a shade teasingly. 

“I was thinking how lovely you look,” Aziraphale says, still with the thoughtful look.

“You’re not looking so shabby yourself.”

Aziraphale hums. “I was also thinking it might be nice to do something with this.” A skein of dark red rope appears in his free hand.

Crowley blinks several times. “Jeez, angel, my brain is not working fast enough to have this sprung on it like that.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and the rope disappears.

“Hey!” Crowley says, sitting halfway up and twisting to face Aziraphale. “I didn’t say no.”

“We don’t do anything of this sort if one of us is out of it, Crowley, you know that.”

“I was only a little sleepy,” Crowley protests. “And I’m not anymore. Bring it back.”

Aziraphale studies him for a moment, but Crowley knows he’s won. He wouldn’t lie about this, and Aziraphale knows that. They set their ground rules for a reason, and neither of them ever want to deal with the possible regret or hurt that could result from ignoring them. 

The rope appears again, and Crowley grins. Aziraphale smiles back and pulls on Crowley’s shoulder. “Lie down.”

Crowley does. He’d never gotten fully to sitting up anyway, and it’s easy to let gravity overtake him again. 

Aziraphale’s smile is above him now, eyes focused on Crowley’s face in that way that makes Crowley feel almost overwhelmed by the love and appreciation in it. He tries to convey a version of the same through his own gaze.

“What’s our safeword?” Aziraphale asks.

“Dolphin,” Crowley says, unhesitating. “What is it?”

“Dolphin,” Aziraphale parrots. “Very good.”

Crowley smiles. 

Aziraphale stays there for a moment longer, possibly thinking, possibly just enjoying the moment. It doesn’t matter, because after that moment he leans back a little and says, “Give me your hands.”

Crowley lifts the requested limbs from their various positions sprawled over the sofa, waving them in front of Aziraphale’s face.

“Together, please.” Aziraphale’s words are chiding, but his tone is fond. 

Crowley clasps his hands together in the air and waits. 

Aziraphale reaches out, one hand catching Crowley’s and lowering them slightly, the other bringing one end of the rope up and between Crowley’s wrists, draping a loop gently over his left wrist. 

“Oh gosh,” Crowley murmurs before he can stop himself.

Aziraphale sounds amused. “I’ve hardly done anything yet.”

“I _know,”_ Crowley complains. “Get on with it, then.”

“If you insist.” Aziraphale takes the end and threads it back between Crowley’s wrists. The soft rope slides over Crowley’s skin and he sighs shakily. 

Aziraphale continues to weave, over and under and through until Crowley’s wrists are secured together. He doesn’t immediately let go after he ties it off, instead hooking his fingers gently in the ropes to keep them in the air. “You can let go of your hands now.”

Crowley knows what’s coming, he does, but the change from holding his hands together to leaving them floating free still sends a shiver down his spine. He thinks that this, right here, is the moment where what just happened really sinks in. He loves it.

The rope is a gentle pressure on his wrists, the weight of his arms making it dig a little deeper. Aziraphale’s hands on the ties brush his skin too, and it feels almost magical the way Crowley put his arms here, but Aziraphale is the one keeping them in place. 

“Good?” Aziraphale asks quietly.

Crowley realizes his eyes are half-closed. He opens them. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale lowers Crowley’s hands, then, laying them on the demon’s stomach. He runs his fingers over the ropes, and Crowley shivers. 

Aziraphale smooths his other hand across Crowley’s face, running a finger down his nose, another across his cheekbones. Crowley’s eyes close again, and he makes a contented noise. 

Aziraphale’s hand finishes its exploration of Crowley’s face and settles lightly on his collarbone. After a minute or two of stillness, Crowley cracks an eye open.

“Got more plans, angel?”

“I could certainly come up with some,” Aziraphale replies. “Do you have something in mind?”

Crowley considers this. “Well,” he says finally. “I can’t help but notice that you’ve left me a rather effective weapon, if I chose to use it.” To illustrate, he lifts his hands and whacks ineffectually at Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale catches them before he can get in another whack. “I see what you mean. I suppose I’ll have to fix that, won’t I?”

Before Crowley can reply, Aziraphale has taken a steadier grip on his wrists and gently but firmly pulled them over his head. Crowley makes a garbled noise.

“Yes?” Aziraphale sounds amused. Crowley loves him so much.

“Damn it, Aziraphale,” he manages instead

Aziraphale smirks and presses Crowley’s hands against the arm of the sofa. “Do you have a complaint?”

Crowley glares at him.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.

“No,” Crowley says, because a real question deserves a real answer. 

“Good.” The smirk widens a little. “You do know you’re holding your hands together again?”

Crowley had not, in fact, noticed this. He lets go, and the rope pulls as his hands shift. 

Aziraphale’s fingers find his and squeeze. “Oh, very good.”

Crowley has to close his eyes again, what with the sensation of the rope pulling on his wrists and Aziraphale’s happy, affectionate smile only a little bit above him. He swallows. 

Aziraphale’s thumb strokes across the back of Crowley’s hand. “All right?” he murmurs.

Crowley takes a long, slow breath. Then he nods. 

“All right,” Aziraphale says again. “Do you want to wind down now, or move on to another idea I just had?”

Crowley opens his eyes just so he can roll them. “As if that’s a choice.”

“It _is,”_ Aziraphale protests.

“Well, I’m curious. Keep going.”

The pleased smile returns to Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley mirrors it.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, and lifts Crowley’s hands in the air. “You had a very good point about how much freedom of movement you have here. And if I don’t want to keep immobilizing your arms myself…”

Crowley’s mind runs rapidly through several possible ideas Aziraphale might be having, each just as interesting as the last. “Do it,” he says.

“You don’t even know what I’m thinking of.”

“Don’t care.”

Aziraphale smiles and lays Crowley’s hands down. “Sit up.”

Crowley makes a disgruntled noise.

Aziraphale seems to consider briefly, then lifts Crowley’s head and shoulders far enough to stand up off the sofa. Crowley silently mourns the loss of his angelic pillow with a small part of his brain, occupying the rest with the far more interesting endeavor of looking up at Aziraphale, who was now standing above him, holding…

“Is that your scarf?” he asks.

“One of them.”

“It’s tartan. You aren’t going to put tartan on _me?”_

Aziraphale lifts the fabric. “You did tell me to, quote, ‘do it’, even when I pointed out you didn’t know what we were talking about.”

Crowley flicks his eyes from the scarf to Aziraphale’s face, and nods.

“Besides,” Aziraphale says, leaning down so he’s right above Crowley, “this one is very sturdy.”

Crowley decides he is officially giving up on saying words.

Aziraphale grins and settles on the ground next to the sofa. “Now sit up.”

The soft surface means it takes a few tries, but Crowley does. Aziraphale guides him to lean against the angel’s shoulder, then loops the scarf smoothly around Crowley’s forearms and torso, pinning them together. The scarf is soft and wide, exerting a gentle pressure everywhere it touches. Crowley sighs and turns his head to bury his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I’m going to _melt,”_ he complains.

“It’s about time,” Aziraphale comments, putting his arms around Crowley. 

Crowley laughs a little, feeling light and fuzzy and warm. 

“Why’m I still up here?” he complains after a minute. “All by myself.”

Aziraphale shifts his grip, pulling Crowley off the edge of the sofa and lowering him to the ground. “Not by yourself, love.”

Crowley tucks himself closer to Aziraphale. “I know.”

The rope on his wrists tugs gently as he shifts, the scarf around his arms soft but secure. He focuses on those sensations, mixed with the sturdy fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt under his cheek, the additional weight of Aziraphale’s arm on his back. 

“See?” he murmurs. “Knew your idea would be good.”

Aziraphale laughs quietly. One of his hands moves to toy with the rope on Crowley’s wrists again, pressing gently on it, hooking a finger into one of the looser loops, running his thumb across Crowley’s. 

“I am glad,” he says after a moment, so quietly that Crowley might not have heard it if they weren’t so close, “to be worthy of the trust you have given me.”

Crowley opens his eyes and tips his head up, shifting his shoulders, feeling the ties Aziraphale put in place. “This whole thing is selfish, really,” he can’t help saying.

“It isn’t selfish if I like it too,” Aziraphale reminds him. “Which I do.”

“You just like me being all still and quiet,” Crowley teases.

“I like making you happy,” Aziraphale retorts, and pushes Crowley sideways until he can bury his fingers in the demon’s hair. 

Crowley goes willingly. He’s not sure what he would have said to that, and this way he doesn’t have to come up with something. Besides, between the hand in his hair and the rope on his wrists his mind is going rather fuzzy, and he likes the idea of letting it do that for a while. 

~

The light has started to dim when Aziraphale shifts and begins to loosen the knotted scarf. Crowley, who had closed his eyes some time ago, opens them and makes a questioning noise. 

“I’m taking it off,” Aziraphale says.

“Mm,” Crowley replies, and turns to nuzzle Aziraphale’s shirt. “Okay.”

Aziraphale deftly undoes the knot and pulls the scarf free, laying it on the sofa behind them. Crowley yawns and lifts his arms experimentally, pulling on the still-secure rope. Aziraphale catches his hands and draws them farther up again, until he can untie that one too. He unwinds the rope just as carefully as he had wound it up a few hours ago, then runs his fingers over the space where it had been, squeezing Crowley’s wrists gently before loosening his grip and smoothing a hand over Crowley’s hair. 

“How are you?” he asks.

Crowley takes a deep breath, letting the calm of being tied up by Aziraphale combine with and settle into his more usual headspace. “Good.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I’m glad.”

Crowley squirms to a half-sitting position so he can wrap his newly freed arms around Aziraphale’s middle. “Yeah. Good. How are you?”

Aziraphale’s arm settles across Crowley’s shoulders. “I am also good. That was a very enjoyable way to spend an afternoon.”

“You’re telling _me,”_ Crowley comments, and squeezes the angel.

“I take it you enjoyed it as well?”

“Fuck yes,” Crowley declares. “Which you’re well aware of, or you’d never have done it at all.”

Aziraphale hums happily. “Is there anything we should go over for future reference?”

Crowley thinks for a minute. “The scarf was a good move. Definitely something to keep in mind.”

“Even though it was tartan?” Aziraphale’s tone is teasing.

Crowley is _not_ about to say any of the things that are going through his head about how it felt to be tied up with _Aziraphale’s tartan scarf,_ and therefore hesitates a moment too long. Aziraphale speaks again, sounding even more amused. “Did you _like_ the tartan?”

“Shut up,” Crowley mumbles into Aziraphale’s side.

Aziraphale’s hand catches Crowley’s forearm and squeezes lightly. “I’m only trying to make sure I keep track of what you like.”

“Bastard,” Crowley says succinctly. He can’t quite keep the smile off his face, though. “Love you.”

“I love you too, darling.”

There’s a moment of quiet.

“I think it’s around suppertime, and I’d like to eat today,” Aziraphale says. “What do you say to delivery?”

“Can we do it without moving?”

“That was my point with suggesting delivery.”

Crowley closes his eyes. “Then I say yes.”

“How about Indian?”  
  
“Mm.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

Crowley contemplates this, slightly hazily. “Maybe. Can do it after food.”

Aziraphale’s hand runs down his side. “You’re welcome to nap now, if you’d like. Would you rather take the sofa?”

Crowley feels that the fact that he’s still holding onto Aziraphale should make his opinions on moving very clear. Since it apparently does not, he says, “Floor is good. Don’t go away.”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply, but a moment later Crowley hears him say, “Hello, I’d like to order delivery, please.”

“Did you nick my phone?” Crowley asks.

Without looking down, Aziraphale moves his free hand to rest on Crowley’s face, one finger pressing firmly across his lips. Crowley contemplates biting it, but ultimately decides against. The fuzzy feeling of the afternoon has morphed into a comfortably sleepy haze, and he’s happy to just exist here for now. 

Aziraphale ends the call and moves his hand to rest on Crowley’s side again.

“You said you didn’t want us to move,” he says. “And your phone was closest.”

Faced with that unshakable argument, Crowley chooses to let the matter lie. He yawns and closes his eyes, slithering down until he’s mostly lying on the carpet and letting his arms drape over Aziraphale’s knee and the floor. 

“Wake me when the food gets here,” he murmurs.

“Oh, don’t worry, I will,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley grins and closes his eyes. Of course Aziraphale will. He wonders, briefly, whether they ordered samosas. 

Then he dozes off, safe in his home with his angel by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! I'm intrigued by this fic and a little wary of sharing it, but I'm sharing anyway. Encouragement is _greatly_ appreciated.


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